The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [110]
“Holy shit!” Lindell exclaimed.
“Isn’t it great?” Schönell said.
“Good work.”
This was exactly what Schönell wanted to hear.
“It took awhile,” he said, “but I had the feeling there was something here.”
Then he discarded his indifferent attitude and eagerly explained how many hours he had spent watching the videos, and how something about the porn film had nagged at him, and how he had watched it over and over again until he finally spotted the likeness.
Lindell laughed and added a comment about his doggedness to her earlier praise.
“Let’s call Otto. Do you have any coffee in here?”
“I’ll get it,” Schönell said and rushed out into the corridor.
Schönell’s office quickly became crowded. Whether it was the promise of seeing something awesome or Lindell’s enthusiasm that had lured their colleagues was of no importance to Schönell, who basked in the glory. People came and went and the speculation went into overdrive.
“I bet it’s a case of blackmail,” Fredriksson said, and that appeared to be the theory that found the most support.
Lindell did not say much, but studied the image with extreme care, seeing in the man’s eyes a desire to please but also the opposite, a kind of defiance. She estimated his age at between twenty and twenty-five. He had brown eyes and a wide forehead. But what clinched it was the small mouth and the cruel angle of the thin lips.
The man could have been Armas’s twin. Lindell was willing to bet good money on his being the son of the murdered man. The question of which direction this find was going to take the investigation was already being discussed, even though his identity had not been confirmed.
“This video may have nothing at all to do with the case,” Sammy Nilsson threw out.
Ottosson shook his head.
“It has a connection to Armas, and therefore to the case,” he said. “It has some sort of bearing on the crime. Well done, Schönell!” he added, cast a final glance on the television screen, and left the room.
Before Lindell returned to her office, she delegated the tasks that the new find presented. She asked Schönell to arrange for copies of a number of pictures of the actor. Beatrice Andersson, who had been looking at the image with distaste for a few seconds, only to turn away, received the task of identifying the company that had produced the video and determine if they were in any way cooperative.
Bea took a look at the cover and read the information in fine print.
“It was produced in California. I’m more than happy to go there,” she said.
Ann Lindell was too restless to return to what she had been doing earlier in the day, and ended up standing in front of the window trying to put together a picture of what had happened. If the man in the video really was Armas’s son, then that presented a complication. But it could also further the investigation. Was this blackmail? Had someone discovered that Armas’s son was a porn actor and tried to use this to press him for money? What did Slobodan know? He had claimed that Armas had no relatives. Was this a lie or did he simply not know about Armas’s son?
Slow down, she thought, he hasn’t been identified yet. But that was an objection with little practical value. She had made up her mind: this was Armas’s son. The prints that they had secured on the videotape belonged to the blackmailer, she also decided.
She walked over to the phone, located Slobodan Andersson’s number, and called him up. For the first time the restaurant owner sounded relaxed, even suggesting that he could stop by the police station if that was more convenient for Lindell.
“What is this about?”
“I have some thoughts that I wanted to test out on you,” Lindell said, trying to reciprocate his friendliness, even if she sensed an element of calculation in his unusually mild tone.
They agreed that Slobodan would report to the police station reception area in one hour. During that time Lindell planned to read a report on Quetzalcóatl that Fryklund, a new recruit, had assembled.
It turned